


and i did.

by theowlinsomniac



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-04-29 05:21:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5116994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theowlinsomniac/pseuds/theowlinsomniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>warm breath ghosts over her numb leg, and for a moment she thinks she might feel it. </p><p>(collection of murven drabbles - some canon divergent)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i'm not calling you a liar (just stop haunting me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under her fingertips he's as fragile as her spine, as breakable as the thinnest plate of porcelain. She revels in his softness, his vulnerability.

"You shot me." she rasps, watching him from above with eyes of steel. (even though they're both liars they face this simple truth together.)

He breathes deeply from below her, shifting his weight and leaning forward just slightly. " _I know,_ " his breath is long and pungent enough to be felt ghosting over her functioning leg, causing a chill to run down her spine. His cheeks are stained with tears she should have scoffed at, but now they cause an icy feeling to pool at the pit of her stomach. "And I'll make it up to you. I'll give my whole damn life to make it up to you," his eyes are now closed as he leans forward, pressing his forehead to her bum leg. 

And she thinks for a moment that she might even _feel_ it, as she chokes back tears in silence. She thinks for a moment she can feel the heat of his smooth, pale skin pressed against her knee, the flat of his nose against her shin, nostrils blowing thick, hot air out of his heavy lungs. A shaky hand moves from the bed to the air, reaching hesitantly for his neck. Her fingers move to the crown of his head, coming to rest in his nest of hair, threading through the dark strands.

( _Its softer than it should be. He's a monster, not a boy. He is supposed to be the darkness, and she is supposed to be the light. But under her fingertips he's as fragile as her spine, as breakable as the thinnest plate of porcelain. She revels in his softness, his vulnerability._ )

She closes her eyes and leans over him, one hand laying on his head and the other covering her face, elbow rested on her knee. She cries. She's not sure why. And before she realizes, she's been tucked into her bed (alone) and John Murphy is gone.


	2. sometimes i hear you calling (from some lost and distant shore)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy is simple.
> 
> Or at least, he likes to think he is.

He thinks about her at night. When the sands blow over his skin, giving the pale surface a rough texture. If they were friends, she'd make a joke about starting a fire from rubbing a stick on his arm. But they're not.

Jaha watches him as he sits alone, glaring at the stars as if they shine only to cast long shadows across him. He can tell the older man worries- not for Murphy's mental or emotional state, but for his loyalty. How could Jaha control him if he sat alone and thought about the past? How could Jaha trust the son of a floated thief?

Murphy likes to draw lines in the sand when he thinks, run his fingers across his thighs like a drum. They practice an ancient rhythm- one he memorized back in school. (Anxiety, anger, boredom- his slim digits would tap decisively at whatever surface he could find.) Now he is nostalgic. He is tired.

He thinks about her at night. How he could see her ship from the woods. It burned in the atmosphere like he wished he could have. It burned a hole in his chest to think someone had a way out- an escape route from the deepest tier of Hell. If he'd had the chance, he would have made the drop too, waved goodbye to his cellmates and gotten the hell out of town.

Murphy is simple.

Or at least, he likes to _think_ he is.

Eat or be eaten. Fight until you can't anymore. She's a fighter too. Smart (unlike him) and powerful (though her ruptured spine, his one mistake, slows her down).

When Murphy was little, he'd run off to school with other kids his age. Alex, or Papa then, would rub his hair and kiss his forehead goodbye every day. Murphy did his best in school- his father's job didn't give them much money or power, and even as a child he knew if he didn't move up the food chain, he'd end up between someone's teeth. (The bigger kids used to target him, until he became a follower. After he learned to do what the older boys said, they always gave him a pat on the back and a place to sit at lunch.)

But home was different. Home was walking in the door and the room smelling like moonshine. Home was sleeping on the couch because his mother had stolen the sheets off his bed because her own were soaked in vomit. Home was unpredictable. Some days she'd comb his hair and cook him meals, and others she'd scold him for his scraped knees with a bottle in her hand.

His father did his best, even when he got sick. But the money was being sucked away, his mother's throat the drain, and his father grew desperate. Murphy missed school for weeks, and the bills for the doctor would be too much to pay.

Alex smiled so softly when they opened the doors. Murphy's mother's hand clutched at his little, frozen chest as they watched his father float. He'd begged for his life, and Murphy had been silent as the man (who was his own father's age, had a son of his own) executed him.

Home disintegrated. His mother was fierce in her silence, drowning in her own stench from dawn til dusk. He skipped classes because they didn't matter, skipped meals because he wasn't hungry, skipped sleeping because the nightmares never stopped. (That soft smile was seared into the backs of his eyelids.)

His mother screamed, finally. A break in the silence. He hoped it was progress, despite her accusation ( _"You killed your father."_ she hissed), but things turned for the worst.

The things were sold, Murphy was shipped off to a new end of the Ark, and wound up in prison. ( _Like father like son?_ )

He draws a blob that vaguely resembles the ark in the sand. He recalls her, Raven, saying how her mother used to smell like alcohol, how her clothes reeked and all she wanted to do was escape. He recalls her sharing a story about her mother doing "favors" to get what she wanted. Ambitious, Murphy would call her, but no one else would see it that way. (Maybe he shouldn't see relentlessness that way. Maybe he shouldn't sympathize with someone who so closely resembled the woman who died in her own pool of vomit.)

If he had a glass full of moonshine right now, he'd swallow it all in one go.

He and Raven had something in common. He and Raven could understand each other.

( _"Yeah. I would have shot me too."_ )

Jaha is coming up the hill, so he stands and shakes the sand off his body. He turns, bumping shoulders with Jaha and going back to their camp without a word.

He thinks that if there's ever a real City of Light he'll bring her there. Show her that fucked up kids deserve something nice. ( _He deserves something nice._ )

His hands feel so rough on his cheeks as he reaches up to wipe his eyes. He figures hers are much softer, much smaller, and aren't tainted crimson with the blood of people who were supposed to be her friends.


	3. all around the world was waking (i never could go back)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he dreams he looks like he's ready for a fight, ready for battle. And now he looks at peace.

He's asleep. There's a part of her that forgets how he got here, laying across her tent's floor, head resting on her thigh. His nose is buried into the soft part of her leg, fists curled tight under her elevated knee as she sits criss cross on the ground, head rested on the foot of her bed and exhausted eyes wide open.

If she closes her eyes now, she'll fall asleep with him, hunch over his vulnerable body like a shield. But she won't be his shield.

She lifts her head, gently slides her fingers into his thick black hair. Her dark eyes watch as his body relaxes (even while unconscious) at her touch. Raven tilts her head, breathes slowly, watching his face shift as he dreams.

She's tempted to dig her fingers into his scalp, tug hard on those thick, dark locks, until he screams and cries, not nearly as loud as she had when they ripped the bullet from her spine, but just as cruel.

Instead she strokes his head, caressing his crown and then his cheek with her calloused hands. He moves to get comfortable, and she retracts her fingers, crossing her arms and watching him closely.

His head slides farther back until his nape brushes her hip and his nose rests over her mid thigh. His hands are uncurled now, less aggressive, less hostile. When he dreams he looks like he's ready for a fight, ready for battle. And now he looks at peace.

She hangs her head, untucking her arms and brushing her thumb over his brow, leaning down and brushing her lips against his temple, squeezing her eyes shut so tight she thinks they might burst.

They don't (but her heart does).

He wakes in the morning and she has fallen asleep, her head on the foot of her cot, hands in her pockets, leg brace folded neatly beside her. He rubs his eyes, lifts his head, and scoops her up into his arms. She mumbles in protest, unknowingly turning her face into his chest and hanging a hand over his shoulder on the short trip to her bed. He lets her slip under the covers, but not after first unlacing her boots and pulling them off her feet, and places her brace on the bedside table.

On his way out, he reaches up instinctively to slick back his hair, and finds a few tiny braids there, resting between those thick strands. A smile paints his lips, just briefly, and he exits the tent without a sound.

Raven is excused from any duties she has that day, and at the end of the afternoon, when Murphy yawns, he wishes he was sleeping beside her, evading the harsh light of day.


	4. perjury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hand on the Testament, heart on the line, she opened her lips and sang some false hymn. (We all know the penalty for perjury, he hears some far off voice hissing in his ear, bouncing off the walls of the Ark and into open space.)

When she leans into Abby's touch he feels his heart flinch in his chest, pulsing offbeat as her darkened eyes fall on him. He looks away.

"I got shot." she says with finality, gaze lifting from Murphy and moving to the doctor.

 _"I got shot."_ the echo reverberates in his chest, the words shooting back and forth between ribs. His head jerks her way ( _he can't control it_ ) and she looks right through him, as if he weren't even there. Its too late for her now. Its too late for him now. (S)he'll never look at (him) her the same. 

Hand on the Testament, heart on the line, she opened her lips and sang some false hymn. ( _We all know the penalty for perjury,_ he hears some far off voice hissing in his ear, bouncing off the walls of the Ark and into open space.) He swallows hard, watching the Arkers as they carry her off. Once she leaves the room his eyes glaze over, staring down at the dirty floor, staring down at the tips of his boots that are caked in someone else's blood.

He ties the red cloth she'd tossed to him into knots, over and over and over, until he wraps it tight around his wound ( _like she told him to, but probably didn't care much if he didn't_ ) and stumbles across the threshold of the drop ship, arm across a stranger's shoulder. He didn't think he'd make it this far, but instead of laying face down on the floor like he wants to he limps out into the open, unaware of his vulnerability.

Murphy's eyes scan the area. She's long gone, limp body carried away by men she probably didn't know the names of. His skin prickles at the thought. She's small and fragile, but they carry her like a king, like a heavy burden ( _his burden_ ). 

And suddenly his head hurts, his wounds screaming as the back of his head is throttled against the ground. He almost blacks out, but instead of fighting back he thinks of her, how helpless she was against his biting bullet ( _how helpless he must appear to the doctor and the man in charge, how useless he was to Bellamy, how weak he was to the Grounders_ ). 

His fingers twitch violently when Bellamy throws him down. He sees the image of her mouth overflowing with blood replay over and over again behind his eyelids as the larger boy's blows grow in intensity. If his shot had been just a few degrees North she'd be dead. If he'd thought his plan through he wouldn't be in the dirt, coughing up a mix of bile and blood while sweat drips down his nose and into his gaping mouth. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand when he stands back up and glares, glares because now that she's gone there's nothing more to look at, to enjoy ( _nothing to keep him from laying down and dying right there alongside the corpses of the Grounders who took his pride_ ). 

Her voice rings in his ears. " _I got shot_ ," he whispers to himself as the doctors begin to clean him up once they're all back at the new camp. He wonders why she lied, why she covered. An ounce of her kindness saved his entire world- she _saved_ him. Now the already unbalanced scales were toppling once again. 

Through the halls he can hear her screaming. He shuts his eyes as if _he's_ the one in agony, fighting for his life ( _in a way, he is_ ). 

When Bellamy breaks his bonds and they slip through the bars, he sings his praises silently in his head. Then he walks straight past the hospital tent, however tempting it would be to peek through the fabric to see her sleeping, peaceful face ( _however tempting it would be to see that he hadn't completely destroyed her_ ). When they walk away from camp he realizes that he may never see her again- never see her get up from that place he last saw her on the floor, never again hear his bitter name spat through her upturned lips. 

( _Perjurers get floated,_ he hears in the back of his mind. But if justice is to truly be done, he knows he'll be the one getting floated instead.) 


	5. if any word that i said could have made you forget (i'd have given you them all)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy didn’t have feelings for her. He didn’t have feelings at all.

_He feels sated in this quiet cavern. It’s nothing to smile about, really, but he can’t help but let the ends of his lips curl upwards as his eyes cast over her sleeping body. Her eyes are closed, long eyelashes jet black against her lighter skin. Her dark hair is loose, pushed over her shoulder so that her back is completely exposed to the night’s air._

_They lay chest to chest, heart to heart. Raven’s left arm is tucked under his shoulder, her other arm hanging off the side of the single sized bed. His right hand is laid across the small of her back, holding the thin sheets over their lower halves, his left elbow under her shoulder, arm crooked so his hand can reach her spine and shoulder blades. (He tries not to think about the rippling scar at her hips. He averts his eyes, pushes his gaze elsewhere.) His calloused fingers draw little shapes on her soft skin. His touch is lighter than a feather, hoping she won’t wake and realize what a horrible mistake this was and leave him._

_The room is warm, warm from its place deep inside the Ark, warm from the heat of their bodies pressed together too closely for so long. He feels his legs starting to go numb from being tangled up with hers, but he ignores the feeling. (It’s better to be numb with her than numb without her.)_

_His fingers freeze, drawing back slowly and reaching over to run his finger through her hair. It’s course but soft. The little knots catch between his fingers but he tugs them out (gently). His teeth tug at his bottom lip as he stares, watching the tangles fall from under his hands._

_He pulls his hand away when she starts to move, stirring from her deep slumber. She wiggles her hips to move her body up, scooting closer. As she shifts, he can feel her breath ghosting over his throat, causing his skin to prickle. His eyes widen as she purses her lips and her eyes blink open just for a moment. She looks his face over with a squinted gaze, and slowly sinks back down on top of him, her arms digging into the mattress and wrapping around his chest. Raven buries her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply and pressing her nose into his jaw._

_“God, do you ever bathe?” she huffs, scrunching her nose and shifting her legs, throwing one across his hips. His lips curl up, his teeth showing as he chuckles softly._

_“My smell didn’t seem to bother you when I was--”_

_“John Murphy,” she grumbles, interrupting him._

_“Raven Reyes?” he breathes, pulling his hands off of her and drumming his fingers on the bed._

_A grunt escapes her lips as she hoists herself up and puts her weight on her three stronger limbs. She shakes her head, her hair sliding over her shoulders and onto her back. His hands reach up and settle on her hips, his eyes trained on her mouth as she runs her tongue over her bottom lip. Her eyes are lidded, mostly from fatigue, but he’s happy to think she’s doing it on purpose just for him._

_“Can you for one second,” she says, leaning in closer, “close your damn mouth?”_

 

He jolts awake, his entire body seizing up as the yelling outside his door gets louder. His hands meet his face, rubbing his eyes and pushing his hair back. A groan escapes as he gets out of his (cold, empty) bed, and he tries to ignore the pounding in the back of his head and the bickering of unknown Arkers outside his door. His feet hit the floor and he stumbles forward, reaching down to grab the crumbled pair of pants on the floor. He pulls them up and around his legs and reaches for his boots, sitting back down onto the bed and beginning to lace them up.

It doesn’t take long before the dream escapes his mind. (There’s a man and a woman screaming at each other outside in the hall. He doesn’t pay enough attention to their words to know exactly what they’re arguing about, but if he could just remember the subject of his dream, his mind could be focused somewhere else.) He doesn’t remember the specifics, just that there was a girl hovering over him, dark hair, dark eyes.

He stands and stretches, pushing his way out the door and walks straight into someone, falling forward on top of them as something clatters loudly to the floor. The noise is enough to startle the couple that was arguing, and they quickly walk away when they see Murphy’s face. He jerks backwards, falling onto his back and glaring straight at the other on the floor.

“God, can you watch where you’re--”

His lips close tight. Raven glares at him from a few yards away.

“I would keep my eyes ahead if I didn’t have to watch my feet.” she snaps, reaching for her fallen crutch and hoisting herself to her feet. He watches her struggle, pulling herself up slowly, arms shaking as she shifts her weight. When she finally gets back up, she doesn’t look him in the eye. He stands, brushing himself off and he adjusts his jacket on his shoulders.

“Thanks for your help, Murphy.” she huffs in annoyance.

He sneers. “I knew you didn’t need it.” Her eyes flick towards him, running over him in disgust. He shrugs and turns his back, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t you remember? I only help myself.” He can hear her scoff as he walks away.

Even right in front of him, he didn’t remember his dream (or any other similar past dreams, as a matter of fact.)

Even when she looks him in the eyes and puts a gun to his chest, he doesn’t remember how she looked hovering over him, how his chest felt tight and his heart raced when she said his name. (He didn’t care. Just like she didn’t care if he lived or died, didn’t care if he left or stayed.)

And he doesn’t stay. But he doesn’t dwell on the subject long enough to have anymore of those types of dreams, or any kind of dream at all.


	6. i think i (might have inhaled you)

She dreams. She dreams of white rooms and yellow light, gently filtering in from the outside. She dreams of soft, white blankets, heavy heads resting on pillows, dark hair fanned across canvas sheets. She dreams of stark blue eyes behind dark brown eyelashes, of soft strands of hair and sturdy hands drifting lightly over her skin. She dreams of brown eyes skittering across the bed, resting on his face, on the slope of his nose, on the crooked tilt of his brow. She dreams of winds softly blowing through the room, of concerned glances, of resting eyes. 

When Raven wakes up, it’s not gentle or graceful. When she wakes, she gasps for air, fingers digging into the blankets, sweat beading on her forehead. Acclimation takes only a short moment, denial impossible with the dull soreness in her good leg. It’s time to move, to stretch, to live. 

She closes her eyes and sees it again. A single brush of a finger, and she can no longer feel her leg. It’s a gentle thing, no pain, just surrendering. She looks at him with confusion, he looks at her with an expression she’s never seen before. ( _Guilt, anger, confusion, ~~love~~?_ ) Raven’s eyes open slowly. He’s beautiful, in the night, in her dreams. After Finn, gadgets began to turn in her mind, her timelines crossing despite the roaring voice in her head telling her what was real and what wasn’t. Maybe she didn’t want to listen to it. Maybe she wanted to live in her dreams where she loved someone she was supposed to hate instead of the waking world where everyone looked at her like she needed their sympathy and treated her like a little girl. ( _She isn't a little girl anymore. She can hate and feel as much as she wants to._ ) 

The brace slips on with ease now. She sees his hand slipping over her bum leg, fingers tracing circles over her knee, across the top of her thighs, eyes trained so heavily on her it was if he was looking for something inside her. As if he was _worshipping_ her irregularity. The physical manifestation of the raging war inside her, the struggles she's seen. ( _Life was a bitch, but a paralyzed limb wasn’t a metaphor, dammit. Not even in her dreams._ ) At least he didn’t treat her differently than everyone else. At least he looked at her like she was something other than a burden. At least he hated her instead of pitied her. She could live with that. ( _Hate wasn't much different than love, and at least the sentiment was mutual._ )

She pulls a shirt over her head. The dream never changes. They never touch more than his hand to her leg, to her face, sometimes to her hair. They keep their distance, clothed in undergarments but never anything less, only connected by his fingertips lightly trailing across her warm skin. He’s always in control, and she paralyzed. She scoffs, slipping on her boots. ( _Fuckin’ ironic_.)

She slowly lays back in her bed, closing her eyes and turning her head to rest on her pillow. She inhales. Sometimes she thinks she can still smell it, the scent of his hair still on her pillow. She exhales. Someone knocks at her door. She bites her lip, sitting up and calling to them. Another deep breath, and she stands. ( _It travels with her. Gun powder, cough syrup, and lilacs. She carries it with her like a shield, only to be let down when she closes her eyes again._ )

 

 

 


	7. tell me that you love me (even if its fake)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (canon divergent & i apologize for any plot mistakes - may parallel to past chapters)
> 
> She looks at him then, because she knows he's looking at her.

He stays. (Jaha's disciples dissuade him from, yet again, becoming someone else's bitch.) 

He learns to accept the cold stares, the 'accidental' shoulder bumps, the verbal shots everyone takes at him when he gets within ten feet of any one of the holy few. 

Clarke doesn't say his name anymore. Jasper and Monty barely glance in his direction. Bellamy puts him to work, spits his name out of his mouth like it's something foul. Octavia isn't around enough to even notice him, Lincoln the same. Things are tense, everyone is afraid, but Murphy is the same. 

Murphy sleeps, eats, works, gets drunk off of his own secret stash of leftover moonshine, repeats. He's sure the Disciples are dead by now, seeing as it's been a few weeks and there hasn't been any word from the Promised Land.

 _What's a God without a Chosen One, though_ , Murphy thinks to himself one night. Maybe if he'd gone with them, they could have had a fighting chance. He sure as hell was the last one around actually fighting for himself, fighting to stay alive. Everyone else was still trying to stay afloat in the sinking life raft that they wanted to call 'righteousness' and 'selflessness.' Except her. 

He licks his chapped lips, guzzling down another few sips of moonshine. He sits by himself next to a small fire at the far edges of the Ark camp. It's a nicer place than where he was living before getting locked away, nicer than the dropship, and a hell of a lot nicer than the Grounder camp. But it gets troublesome. Being alone, a one man crusade with no cause. He gulps down more alcohol, washing away his sins. (Or maybe just trying to forget them)

Sometimes the guards come around, mess around, try to get to his head. The moonshine usually drowns out their insults, drowns out whatever animosity he feels towards them. But tonight the footsteps in his direction aren't strong or confident, they're dragging, slow, and painful to listen to. He has to shut his eyes in order to summon the power it takes to not get up and get the hell out.

She struggles closer, collapsing beside him and yanking the moonshine out of his hand. His eyes immediately open, glaring in her direction as she tilts her head back and lets the moonshine roll down her throat and into her stomach. Her eyes are closed, hands trembling, bum leg straight out in front of her. (It mocks him, and he deserves it) 

She sets the jar back down on the ground, scooting it towards him. He gapes, but takes it back anyways, shoving it between his knees to protect it from her grasp. He's not certain, but this could be the last of what he's hoarded away, so he wants to cherish every drop. (He pouts his lip at her because she's stolen from him. He guesses he's stolen much more from her. They will never have parity.) 

She hoists herself up on her arms, dragging her legs across the ground towards where he's sitting, her shoulder brushing his as she settles into her spot closer to the fire. He looks at her, but her eyes are trained on the flames, her arms wrapped around her good leg, her chin resting on her knee. He licks his lips again. 

"Tell me." she huffs, her breath a ghostly white in the air. His gaze remains fixed on her. 

He hums in response, (more like a grunt) because he knows what she wants him to say but he can't bring himself to do it. Not yet. She doesn't try to clarify what she means, only tilts her head the other way and continues to look into the flickering light. 

"There's three things you need to make a fire," she starts, pulling her hands back and running her fingers gently through the pine needles and dirt around them. He can't take his eyes off of her, "Oxygen, which we have an abundance of here," she glances around as if it were visible, her eyes still avoiding him, "heat," his heart rate spikes. Her hand comes to rest next to his, their knuckles brushing. Her fingers are warm, radiating against his cold hand. "And fuel." 

She looks at him then, because she knows he's looking at her.

_Oxygen._

She's coughing up blood, hanging from the ceiling in a hammock made of tarp. There's not enough air to console her writhing lungs. Her body is covered in disease, but she fights it and wins. He brushes a strand of hair from her face as she sleeps. He lays a cool cloth over her forehead and watches her closely, but only when no one else is looking. When she sleeps she breathes deeply, compensating for what she almost lost in space. Compensating for the air she might not have had a chance to breathe if the bullet had done it's worst. She laid in his lap when she recovered a second time, because he was the only one who understood.

_Heat._

She pulls the trigger. Multiple times. She wishes the bullets had penetrated his fragile frame, had broken him into a million pieces. Instead he sits in front of her, helps her, ties a red strap around his leg because he wants to please her. She tries it again, the barrel of a gun to his chest to trade him for her prized possession. She wants him dead. He doesn't blame her. But weeks later she still runs her fingers through his hair when he has a night terror at the same moment she'd been looking for Bellamy. And her fingers still tug his closer now, next to the source of heat. His head is starting to throb. 

_Fuel._

Bullets, red straps, little braids, leg braces, crutches, bombs, and knives. Throw them into a fire, they ignite, but their ashes remain after the holocaust. The smell of the smoke lingers. Raven shifts, slipping the moonshine out from between his knees and drinks more. His eyes move to the dancing light. It's dying quickly, stifled by the night's cold air. When he looks at her again the moonshine has moved, far out of his reach, and she's moving too.

Her fingers twist in between his and she sits up, swinging her legs over him so they're facing each other. It feels wrong, it is wrong, and they both know it. Her face, usually full of emotion and life, is calm and grey. (Her eyes could still scorch the earth below them, could still kill a man with a single look. He wishes he had that power. His first glare would be directed at a mirror.) She sets their interlocked hand on one of his knees. He looks at her, hoping his face is equally as deceiving as hers in this moment. 

"Tell me." she echoes. 

"I'm sorry." he answers. She moves closer, even though he shakes his head slowly, a gesture that fades.

" _Tell me_." 

"I'm sorry." he repeats. Her forehead touches his, her eyes close. She rests. He's shivering, even though he's never felt so hot in his life. She's still so far from him, even as they're so close. 

"I just want to hear it," she whispers, her voice shaking, "even though I know you don't mean it." 

"Raven," his other hand finds her arm, pulls her into his chest, "I'm sorry." 

She shakes. 

A changed woman pulls away, face alight again. Her nose brushes his cheek as she leans her head backwards and scooting her legs forwards, her body half on top of him. 

"Tell me," he breathes, half to himself. Her lips part, gazing from his eyes to his mouth, "tell me, even if you don't mean it," he says. 

"I hate you," she fists her hand in his hair because it feels good to say it, to tell him, to be in control. She pushes him to the ground, "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate--" her words are drowned out by his lips, but even as tears fall to douse the flames _they burn_. 


	8. it's the wrong time (but she's pulling me through)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He feels more alive than he has since he found the City of Light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for jen

He stumbles into camp. He's never felt this much pain. Head, throat, chest, arms, legs, knees, all the way to the tips of his toes, he _hurts_. 

Guards follow him in, guns to his back. His face is covered in blood, dirt, and sand. His tongue is so dry he knows if he doesn't get water soon, it might abandon him. (God, he can't imagine a world without words, but he'll forgo it if he gets to tell them what he's seen first, tell them what Jaha is about to do to them.) 

It's dark, too early in the day for many to be awake, but a small crowd begins to form. Clarke and Bellamy appear from the same tent. Internally he grimaces, but his face is too hardened by fatigue to react. Monty reaches the corner of his eye, standing beside Monroe, whose hair is cropped short. Other familiar faces begin to file in, weary eyed, expressions of betrayal and surprise. 

He hears his name escape someone's mouth. It's far off in the distance, so far he thinks he imagined it. He slows, coming to a halt in the center of the crowd. Clarke's mother pushes her way towards him, but the look in his eyes deters her. Instead of trying to help him, she asks him something trivial, why he's here perhaps. He can't hear her over the sound of murmuring coming from all around him. Kane had probably told the guards to shoot him on sight if he returned, and they let everyone down by keeping him alive. Murphy can't bring himself to look at Bellamy, who glowers from a few yards away. He keeps his mouth shut, despite his obvious anger. 

A voice weakly calls out to him from the back of the crowd, the same voice he'd heard moments earlier, only stronger now. Murphy's breathing gets harder, deeper. He wheezes, but Abby remains still. They've already wasted too many supplies on him. He looks around, trying to find the source of the voice, the one that sticks out from the rest. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, and she's right there in front of him, breathing hard, one hand on a stranger's shoulder to keep her balance. Her eyes widen when she meets his gaze. 

"Murphy," she pushes off the stranger and walks slowly towards him on wobbly steps. He can tell from her puffy eyes and wild hair that she's just woken up, that she'd pulled on her brace and dragged herself out here to see if it was true, if he'd really returned. (Last time she saw him she thought she was sending him to his grave.)

She stands before him. The guards take a step back. The people around them grow silent. They think she's going to kill him. Her hands reach up towards his neck. He'll let her kill him, he'll let her strangle his last breath out of him because everyone else's stares burning into his skin are making him realize what a bad idea this was. 

Instead of doing exactly what everyone is expecting (she's always full of surprises), her eyes soften, her hands waver, and she pulls his heavy head into her shoulder. She softly cradles his skull with her hands, pressing her chest against his. His eyes widen, a collective gasp can be heard throughout the crowd. Her fingers softly stroke his hair (it's longer now, his face isn't clean shaven anymore so his scruff scrapes against her neck, the blood from his cracked lips is sure to stain her shirt). Her eyes close as she clings to him tightly. Murphy's arms are limp at his sides, hands trembling in shock. He hasn't been touched by another human in at least two months, he hasn't seen another person in weeks, he hasn't been embraced like this since... since he told Alex Murphy goodbye. Her caress is warm and soft, comforting, and he never wants to let go. So he slowly lifts his arms, even though his muscles scream for him to stop, and wraps his hands around her back, pulling her as close as he can. He clings onto her as if his life depended on it (it probably does), and he can feel her heart pounding in her chest. 

He feels more alive than he has since he found the City of Light. 

His knees grow weak, though, and he sinks to the ground. She goes with him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her nose into his neck. "Murphy," she whispers, "you're here... please... don't..." His eyes squeeze tightly shut. He breathes her in, smelling the faint scent of soap on her skin, the strong smell of grease and iron, and the warm fragrance of sleep. His head feels lighter and lighter by the second.

The shouts are starting again, and behind his eyelids he can see that noose slipping around his neck. He'd rather let Raven keep her arms around his throat instead, but she pulls away after much too short a time of holding on. His heart falls to the ground, melting against the frozen earth. Her hands linger on his cheeks. He looks up at her, into her wet brown eyes. It's like she's looking into his soul. 

"I..." he croaks, his hands falling off her waist as his eyes start to go out of focus. (The number of times he's passed out from pain is becoming countless. It's  familiar feeling now, but not a welcome one.) Raven's eyes widen in panic. 

"Get him some water!" she yells, just before the world goes back and he collapses on the ground.


	9. now they're going to bed (and my stomach is sick)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That's all I needed to know." she says, her voice strained. He doesn't follow her, but she didn't expect him to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> memori mentioned/implied.

Raven can see the girl's look of concern from across camp. The mechanic's gaze is trained on the pair standing a little ways away. The two are close enough to be seen in the light of her fire, but too far to be heard. She sees Murphy's hand fall on the girl's arm, pulling her closer as he leans in to whisper in her ear. She seems upset, worried maybe. It looks like Murphy is trying to comfort her. Raven's stomach writhes. 

The girl, Emori she thinks her name is, nods, giving a weak smile as Murphy looks her over. He takes her hand, then traces her cheek with his finger before she pulls away. He stares in her direction a while after she's gone. Raven gets sick of it after a few seconds, watching him watch her like a lovesick puppy. That wasnt him, or at least, that wasn't the Murphy she knew.

She turns back to her fire, shoving around the logs and ashes with a stick. She stands, confident with her new brace, and reaches for more firewood. By the time she's tossed more wood into the fire, Murphy is settling himself on the ground, leaning his back against the log she'd been sitting on. She freezes. He doesn't seem to notice her panic as he stares into the fire, her stick in his hands, shifting around the firewood to make the fire grow. 

Raven slowly sinks down onto her log, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, and joining him to stare at the flames. There's movement all around them and noises of people preparing for attack. Things have changed, war is coming. People have yet to decide who they are and what side they are on. She wonders what side Murphy will be on when their friends, well, _her_ friends, decide that his desert girl is not wanted here. (Raven certainly doesn't want her here.)

"Does she..." she begins, stopping herself and clearing her throat. He furrows his brows, looks up at her. 

"What?" he asks, even though he heard her. 

"Does she make you happy?" Raven croaks, eyes cast downwards. She picks at her nails. The last thing she wants is to sound jealous, because she's not. The thought of Murphy fucking off and finally staying out of her way is a beautiful one, sitting right at the front of her mind. But the absence of the thorn in her side would make her feel different, would bring change. Right now while things are so uncertain, she doesn't think she can lose the stability of her hatred for him, the stability of their weirdly intimate trust. Once Murphy finds someone new to confide in, Raven will have no one to share the misery with. No one to blame when things are going wrong. 

"I..." he starts, turning back to the fire and pulling his knees to his chest. "Yeah. She does." 

Raven closes her eyes. 

Even in the darkness she sees them. The images flash despite the fact that they're the last thing she wants to see. (Emori looking up at him, Emori holding his face in her hands, Emori yelling at him, Emori's eyes on his chapped lips. The it gets worse. She sees Murphy leaning down to kiss her, his arms wrapping around her small frame and pulling her close. She sees him look at her with his light blue eyes, and instead of anger or apathy there's something more.) Emori is beautiful. Murphy is... well, Murphy. And it's all wrong. Everything about this is wrong. Especially the way Raven's heart pounds hard in her chest, and the way her fists are curling in anger. 

She stands. 

His head jerks so he's looking up at her, confused. 

"What?" he says as she gathers her jacket and steps over the log towards her tent. 

"That's all I needed to know." she says, her voice strained. He doesn't follow her, but she didn't expect himke to. She marches towards her tent, but someone emerges in her path, brushing shoulders with her as they pass. She turns her head, watching as the girl stops and apologizes quietly before moving towards the fire. Raven swallows, unable to muster a reply. It's Emori, and she's headed right to Murphy.

(How is she supposed to hate someone who is capable of love in the same way she is? How is she supposed to hate someone who is just as weak and human as she is?)

She ducks into her tent before she sees anymore, but the silhouette of the both of them is burned into her brain for longer than she cares to think about.  


	10. this place is a hole, but i don't want to go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to laugh. Since when did Raven fear for his life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw major character death / blood & injury

"Remember that time..." he begins, his hand weakly fisted into his jacket, "I carried you all the way from..." he sputters, blood running over his cracked lips and dribbling down his chin, "from the river to camp because your brace snapped?" 

There's a firm hand on his wound, another roughly feeling his forehead. His eyes are narrowed, but only because they're burning against the cold, dry air around them. There are screams in the distance, the sounds of weapons clanking. He'd been left in the carnage, forgotten about by his comrades. Except for Raven, who'd been sent to retrieve any usable weapons and gear. She was (un)lucky enough to discover him on the ground, barely hanging onto life. 

"No," she says, trying to keep calm. He can still hear the panic in her voice, no matter how hard she tries to stifle it, "tell me about it." 

He knows what this translates to. _Keep talking so I know you're still alive_. It's hard to see him in the dark, hard to see the gaping hole in his body that they both know is there. He knows it more than she does though, because he knows she's holding onto hope while he stares death in the face. It's coming, no matter how hard she tries to save him. 

"You were..." he starts, but then he tastes iron creeping up the back of his throat and he begins to retch. Blood is pouring out of his mouth, and he feels her shove him over onto his side, her hand on his jaw, jerking it down so he faces the ground. He doesn't have the strength to brace himself, so his nose ends up in the dirt, but after a few moments of vomiting he's facing up again. Her hand is still on his face, pushing the hair from his eyes as she looks over him with an expression he's never seen on her face. (She seems drained, like something weighs on her jaw and all the blood has run out of her face.) 

As soon as their eyes meet he knows what it is: _fear_. 

He wants to laugh. Since when did Raven fear for his life?  

"Murphy," she says, both of her hands pressing on his wound now. His left side has gone completely numb, so he's not sure how much good she's doing just sitting there. He's not sure how much good anyone could do at this point, so he'd much rather have it be Raven than anyone else. He doesn't say it out loud, though. He can't find find the words. " _John_ ," she says, pleading. Her dark brown eyes meet his. He's never noticed how beautiful they were, "keep breathing, someone is bound to find you, to find us." She emphasizes 'us' like they're fighting together. Except they're _not_ , and he lost the battle before she even arrived. 

"You," her eyes are welling with tears, her voice going watery, (he closes his eyes. maybe because he knows she wont want him to see her cry. maybe because he can't hold them open anymore.) "you have to come back." her forehead rests on his chest, and he can feel her shaking. He grunts, slowly moving his hand, trying to feel out where hers are. His fingers brush something warm, something silky. It's the crown of her head. Her hair is soft under his palm. It's an awkward attempt to comfort her, even though he's pretty sure she should be comforting him at this point. It isn't like _she's_ going to die. In fact, her life's about to get a hell of a lot simpler. 

"Why," he coughs as she lifts her head, "are you," his lips curl into that familiar smirk, "helping," he coughs, and she wipes the blood from his mouth with her thumb, "me?" 

He hears her laugh. It drowns out the sounds of war. He could listen to it forever, especially since his forever will only last a few more heartbeats. 

Raven laughs and laughs and laughs until she cries. Neither of them know why tears are running down her face, but there's no time to try to understand it.

"I don't..." she starts, shaking her head and placing both her hands on his cheeks, stroking face gently. She smiles weakly, "Because I don't want to die alone." 

Murphy smiles; it's the only thing he can do. He feels the breath slipping out of him, feels his head get light and the rest of his body go numb. Is this how she felt when he tried to help her, when he told her he was sorry? 

He wishes he could say it again. He deserves this, this death. For everything he did, but especially what he did to her. 

"May we meet again," he hears her whisper into his ear. Hearing is the last thing to go. She hums something as he slips away. Something that sounds like home, sounds like the light at the end of a dark tunnel. 

Maybe that's what she's always been for him. 

She kisses his forehead when she's sure he's gone, takes his weapons, and runs back to the fight. 


End file.
